Winter in Riften
by Ornamental Nonsense
Summary: One month. She offered to stay for one month, and after meeting the guildmaster, she was fairly certain it wouldn't be a boring one.
1. Chapter 1

Water lulled against the pilings, and a breeze swept in from the mountains. For such a bright day, it was cold enough that even Riften's thieves were subdued. Winters in Skryim were nothing to laugh at, certainly not when one's cloak was worn thin, and more than one beggar had died in Riften's streets. Prim Bleaksnow's first experience in the city had been watching guards collect and haul away one of the unfortunates. For a moment, she'd even considered returning to Whiterun and the Companions, but that felt too akin to running, and she was sick to death of running. Kodlak had told her to take some time for herself, to travel and decide what she wanted in life now that the running was over.

But was this gray-scale city what she wanted?

She leaned against the pier overlooking Lake Honrich, and wondered what had possessed her to come here in the first place. It had seemed as good a direction as any, and it was the homeland of her mother's ancestors if nothing else. Still, it meant little to her. Nothing profound had struck her as she'd entered the city. There'd been no epiphany or even a good first impression, just the chill of a winter morning.

_Like now_, she thought.

She pulled her worn cloak closer. Her travels had been hard on it, but there was little gold left for buying a new one. She'd spent most of her money on new gear at Jorrvaskr, where Gray-mane had reinforced her leather armor with thin plates. He'd spent days making and then inserting the plates, leaving her armor quite ordinary in appearance, just as she'd requested. Unfortunately, it did nothing for the cold. Her lips were chapped and her cheeks colored by windburn, the auburn hair that spilled around her shoulders kept loose to insulate her neck.

The smell of fish caught her nose easily on the docks. Of everything in Riften, it was the constant barrage of smells that proved the most difficult to embrace: fish, rotted planks, the stagnant canal and the garbage it collected. On her first day, she'd nearly gone mad trying to clear her head from it all.

"Hey, you."

She glanced to her left and found a large Nord addressing her. She recognized him as the one who'd warned her about causing trouble, and standing next to him, she almost looked fragile. He was both tall and broad, his dark hair pulled back from a stern face and trimmed beard. What could he want now?

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"I heard you asking around about the Bleaksnow family."

"What's it to you?"

His eyes lingered on the ebony sword at her waist before he joined her at the railing.

"I might know something, even though there hasn't been a Bleaksnow here for decades."

"Would you like to share a pint and tell me about it?" She even offered him a smile.

"Information in Riften is never free," he stated. "But if you're interested, I might know certain people who make it their business to keep track of who comes and goes in the city. An entire family doesn't just disappear for no reason."

He didn't know the half of it.

"I'll keep that in mind," she decided. "It's more of a...curiosity for me, not a necessity."

"So be it. I'll be around if you change your mind."

He left with a shrug, and wearing a humorless smile, Prim realized that his had been the third offer of information for a price that day. What was it with this place? And had word of a few offhand questions really circulated that quickly? Vilkas and Farkas had both warned her that this place could and would rob a traveler blind, but she hadn't taken them seriously. Perhaps she should.

Out of habit, she reached for the pouch that hooked onto her belt. The pendant inside helped her focus, reminding her of why she'd come to Skyrim in the first place, but the pouch's buckle was undone, its insides bare.

Prim's heart jolted, her fingers desperately inspecting the pouch. Gone. It was gone, and who knew when some slimy pickpocket had decided to help themselves. How long had it been missing?

The image of a handsome, red-haired man jumped to the forefront of her mind. He'd been friendly, even helpful as he'd pointed out the market-goers and commented on the weather. She should have known his assistance came too quickly, and Falmer blood? Really? Silver-tongued rogue. He'd been close enough to steal her goods, but she hadn't felt a damn thing.

Prim marched back to the market, dismayed to find the man's stall abandoned. What had his name been? Bryngale? Brimegruf? She made inquiries and was directed to a place called The Bee and Barb. The city's planked walkways creaked beneath her boots, the door to the establishment swinging open with more force than she'd intended. The room beyond was fairly empty at this hour, a few locals sharing a meal and chatting, and a bard strumming a lute. She spotted her target immediately, directly across the way, and his eyes were already fixed on her. So he'd spotted her first, and just as quickly, he wore a smile.

"Well, if it isn't the lass from the market," he greeted. "Looking for company?"

His eyes were green and set in a face that had undoubtedly won him his fair share of ladies. She took sharper stock of him this time around, unmoved by his sweet words and the roll of his Nordic accent. His clothing was fashionable, but worn around the edges like secondhand goods. _Or stolen goods_, she realized. He was older than her as well—near thirty, if she had to guess. And above all else, he knew what he was doing.

"Where is it?" she demanded.

"Where is what?" _And_ he could play innocent.

"My pendant."

He tilted his head, considering her with a hint of mirth. He motioned to the empty chair beside him, but she made no move to take it.

"I'm afraid I don't know what pendant you're talking about, lass, but you seem upset. Perhaps I could buy you lunch."

"Brimegruf," she spoke. "I know you have it."

"Brynjolf," he smiled. "But friends call me Bryn."

"I'll call you thief, and I'd like my property back." He eased against the back of his chair, a thoughtful tilt to his mouth. "It's personal," she emphasized.

"You seem so certain I've done you wrong, lass."

For a moment, she reconsidered her position. Perhaps she had the wrong man, in which case she owed him an apology, but he wasn't exactly denying her accusation either. He didn't even look affronted.

"You can always prove me wrong by emptying your pockets," she suggested.

"A little demanding, aren't you?" he teased. He cocked a smirk. "Come, lass. Take a seat and we'll discuss this properly. I don't take kindly to someone defaming me in public." He pulled out the chair for her, but she hesitated. "You know what I think?" he quietly continued. "I don't think it was yours to begin with."

She glanced about the room, hoping that no one was eavesdropping. This Brynjolf character seemed so confident in his assertion, and when her lips pursed in dismay, his face lit up.

She reluctantly slid into the chair beside him.

"The pendant's mine," she asserted.

"And whose before that?"

"A king's." He sat down and stared at her a moment before his grin widened. He took a swig of his mead, taking longer than she thought necessary.

"You don't really expect me to believe that now, do you?"

"I'm sure the guards in Daggerfall didn't quite believe it either." She leaned forward, willing to throw her cards on the table in defiance of his own unabashed admittance to theft. "I intend to have it back," she stated.

"I have a better idea," he countered. "A proposition, if you will. You seem like..."

"If you think I'm going to bed you for it, you've got another thing coming."

"Ah, lass," he chuckled. "That's not where I was going. I'm a professional of sorts, and I think you and I are going to get along just fine. Care to hear me out?"

His posture was open, his words enticing. She didn't dare trust him, but couldn't dislike him either. He even motioned for a bottle of mead and paid for it like a decent customer. It wasn't everyday that someone smiled in response to being caught stealing.

"You see, my organization's been having some trouble lately. There are those who would help, but it's not about numbers. It's about talent, and I haven't seen many with a natural gift for quite some time. You though," he smiled, leaning forward. "I think you'd do well, and it will put some gold in your pocket. You look like you could use it."

"Maybe. I'll think about," she lied with a smile. "If you give me back my pendant."

"That's not how it works," he teased, even daring to reach out and tuck hair behind her ear. "How about you do a small job for me first? Then we'll talk."

"And if I fail, you can cut your losses and keep the pendant anyway," she growled. "While I rot in prison, no doubt. No thanks. No pendant; no discussion."

"I wouldn't be throwing you to the wolves, lass. It would be something simple. I swear on my mother's grave. And if you pass, you have more to look forward to than a mere pendant. That cloak of yours looks a little thin."

"I've told you my conditions," she sternly replied.

He studied his bottle of mead for a long moment, and she wondered what he was thinking. Did he really think that he could rope her in as tool so easily? That she would pay to get back what was rightfully hers? He stood from the table with an almost apologetic roll of his shoulders.

"Suit yourself."

Her chair slammed into the wall as she surged to her feet, a growl nestled in her throat. The beast inside was ready for the offensive and latched onto Brynjolf's scent—a trace of canal and filth beneath lighter tones of honey and mead. He wasn't leaving here with her pendant, and a hand reflexively went to the dagger at her waist. His raised his own hands in mock surrender, eyes trailing toward an approaching Argonian. And who was that women by the far wall, watching them so intently? Prim suddenly wondered if Brynjolf had people to watch his back.

"You have a good day, lass. You know where to find me."

She could do nothing as he walked away.

* * *

How dare he stand there like nothing had happened.

Prim sat on the steps of the Temple of Mara, gathering what warmth she could from the afternoon sun. That Brynjolf character was at his stand across the way, hawking his wares to whoever would listen. He'd probably spotted her watching him from a distance, but she didn't dare step foot into the market just yet. She could report him to the guards perhaps, but would they actually do anything? She'd gathered her share of information since yesterday's encounter at The Bee and Barb, and Riften was a place where one settled their own scores, all of which brought her back to her current dilemma. What to do about her stolen pendant? More specifically, how was she going to get it back? People scoffed at the Thieves Guild from what she could tell, but that didn't mean she could be reckless. Unlike him, she had no allies here. He probably thought himself untouchable.

_Not even close._

She stood and stretched. Whatever she did, it had to be today. There wasn't enough money to stay another night, not anywhere decent at least, and if she stepped on the wrong toes, she might as well head out of town anyway. Perhaps she could risk being a little reckless after all.

Taking her time, she meandered through the market and asked after possible work. No one was hiring, which was just as well since she wasn't actually looking. There was an outpouring of information though, and she gathered her share of stories. Riften was the oddest collection of vagrants and unintended residents, all milling about the tired buildings and public houses. Had it not been for the undercurrent of commerce and energy, she thought it might be the most depressing city she'd ever visited. Then again, perhaps the buildings were simply wearing their repairs and faded paint like battle scars.

She caught Brynjolf's eyes for a moment, and he had the nerve to smile and greet her. She scowled back, but held her tongue, letting him think her defeated. Oh, how wrong he was. She waited until he was blocked from view to address a beggar.

"Excuse me," she spoke.

The man was dressed in sullied clothing, and held out his hands to her. He was too old to be on the streets with his gray hair and beard. Someone, somewhere should have been ashamed to let the elder end up in such a state.

"Can you spare a coin, ma'am?"

"I have a few. You can have them, if you do me a favor."

"And what would that be?"

"Do you see that redhead over there?" He nodded. "I need you to break his potions. All of them. Perhaps you could stumble and knock them over?"

"...I suppose."

"Fifteen gold," she promised. "It's all I have left."

They struck their deal, and the beggar ambled off, taking a wide, winding path toward Brynjolf. She didn't have long to position herself before a very dramatic flailing of arms sent bottles flying across cobblestones. Glass shattered and people turned, the beggar holding his hands out and wailing an apology. It was too perfect, right down to the curse that slipped from Brynjolf's lips. The man stared at the broken bottles, and scrubbed a hand through his tousled mane while city guards closed in for questioning. It was a perfect opening for Prim.

She swept by Brynjolf, reached out, and held her breath. He must have felt her fingers graze him before they latched onto his purse. She'd touched with too much force, but a quick snip of twine and a single yank, and it was hers. The leather pouch filled her palm as she jerked away, barely fast enough to escape the hand that followed her. She sped through the gathered onlookers, and glancing over her shoulder, caught his gaze. A small, appreciative smile touched his lips.

She would dwell on that later. For now, she was merely counting her blessings that he hadn't given chase. She found an alley well away from the market and slipped down it, ears on the alert for pursuit as she loosening the purse. When only a few coins fell free, her heart sank. It wasn't here. Not only that, but she'd probably ruined her only chance of retrieving it.

Prim leaned against the wall and inhaled, cursing everything around her to Oblivion. She'd been so certain, but maybe he'd already pawned it off.

_No_, she told herself. She couldn't believe it. If it really was gone, lost to someone unknown...she wouldn't count on it. He'd wanted to make some sort of deal with her. Surely he hadn't disposed of it so quickly, but then where would he have it? In the Ratway, that mysterious den beneath Riften where the Thieves Guild dwelled? His scent, although not unpleasant, suggested that he might be familiar with the place.

She crept back toward the market and dared peek around a corner. Brynjolf was making conversation with that woman from The Bee and Barb—Sapphire, if she recalled correctly. The two were talking, and then Brynjolf was meandering away. Maybe she could see where he went without being spotted. She wasn't giving up yet.


	2. Chapter 2

The cistern was colder than the rest of Riften in the winter, and dampness made it all the worse. Braziers were kept hot, and several thieves huddled around one as they chatted in the soft lighting. It was never bright in this place, and on an overcast day like this one, sunlight barely reached them, seeping down through the ceiling's central opening. The open grating brought ventilation to the stone rooms and tunnels that the Thieves Guild called home, but wedged between lake water and the surface world, even that sometimes proved insufficient. Today, the air was crisp, and it drifted over the pool at the room's center, the water near black in the light's absence.

Mercer Frey stared at the water a moment longer, remembering a time when these rooms had been filled with near constant activity. Now it was calm, almost silent in the chill of winter, and it suited him more than the chatter ever had. He didn't miss having countless footpads underneath or the barrage of questions that accompanied them. He could have taken the whole lot of thieves and cast them into Oblivion some days—could even remember when Brynjolf had accidentally locked himself inside a cabinet as a young thief. No, he didn't miss any of that. What he missed was the flow of gold and jobs, the kind that had kept the guild influential and even feared.

There'd been jewels fit for kings. Relics that collectors would kill over. Rare tomes and the personal writings of those foolish enough to put emotion to paper...

Mercer shifted gray eyes back to the man before him, and felt a surge of impatience. Maybe it was the lightness in the other man's stance. _The hope_, he thought with a touch of disdain. Brynjolf had practically skipped through the cistern yesterday, alerting him to the fact that something was brewing.

"This had better be worth my time," he said without pretense.

"I wouldn't be bothering you if it wasn't."

Mercer doubted that, but sat back in his chair, inviting his second in command to continue.

"Go on."

"There's a newcomer in town. A young, nord lass. She isn't much to look at, but seems to know what she's doing." Brynjolf reached inside his shirt and pulled free a chain and pendant. Gold glinted in the candlelight, drawing Mercer's eyes. "I found this on her. Pretty little bauble, isn't it?"

"Let me see it," he ordered, taking the pendant for closer examination. A symbol was carved into its back, and it struck a vague sense of familiarity in him. Two lines curved into each other, joining and forming a single loop, like a curling grapevine.

"Is it a Breton design?" Brynjolf asked. "She mentioned Daggerfall."

"Could be. An old one perhaps."

"Maybe the lass was being more honest than I thought." Brynjolf was sitting forward now, an eager gleam in his eyes. "She claims to have stolen it from a king."

Mercer scoffed, running a finger over the delicate engraving. He'd heard his share of bullshit in life, and if that didn't sound fantastical, nothing did.

"What did she do?" he asked. "Wave it around and brag about it?"

"Nothing so foolish. She hunted me down and demanded it back—wouldn't be convinced that I didn't have it. For a moment, I thought she'd pull her dagger on me, or maybe her sword."

"Not everyone's swayed by honeyed words," he mused, focused on the pendant. The design could easily be Breton, but it wasn't a common motif, and he'd seen his fair share as a young thief.

"You almost sound approving, Mercer."

"There are already enough fools in the world who are swept away by flattery," he scoffed. "If you put forth an effort and the girl saw through it, she's not a complete idiot." Although her having told a stranger some tale about stealing from a king suggested otherwise.

He finally set the pendant aside, well aware of his second's easy command with women. Charm was a talent he personally lacked, and for which he had no inclination. People like Brynjolf were incredibly useful, even necessary, compensating for any deficits in stealth with verbal wit—not that the younger thief was heavy-footed. He considered Brynjolf with a certain level of regard as he thought through the matter.

"Maybe she didn't take it from a king," Brynjolf conceded. "But it's definitely not hers. She looks a bit ragged around the edges, and her purse was light as a feather. She had little more than the pendant to her name by the time I got to her. The lass is clearly on her own, a little lost if you ask me. That's not what will interest you though. It gets better."

Mercer knew that tone, and although his stare did nothing to encourage it, he couldn't deny being intrigued. He was willing to bet that someone was missing the pendant, and badly. It had been a long time since any of guild's stolen goods had captured his curiosity.

"She cut my purse this afternoon. Took it from me right in the middle of the market after having a beggar destroy my entire stock of potions." Brynjolf counted the woman's accomplishments on his fingers. "Bribery, destruction of property, and theft. Not bad for one afternoon."

"But you caught her doing it?"

"Not fast enough to stop her."

"A single shout and the guards would have tossed her in prison," Mercer disparaged.

"Everyone starts somewhere," the redhead replied, undeterred. "She's bold and has a quickness about her. With a little polishing, she could put those skills to use for us."

"And because she has nowhere else to go, you think she'll be happy to live in a sewer." Mercer's delivery was dry, his voice carrying an edge of warning. "You've been bringing in strays lately. The last one didn't even last a week." At least the man had the good sense to look embarrassed by that particular lapse in judgement. "Your potion scheme couldn't cover the expenses, never mind the dent it put in our reputation. The guards _laughed_ at how quickly they caught him, and now your potion stock for the week is gone. I assume you have a backup plan for that."

"This one's different," Brynjolf insisted.

Both men were stone-faced as they regarded one another, a hint of tension rising about them. Very few were willing to go head-to-head with Mercer, and if it'd been anyone else, he would have had less patience. His second was, however, not without talent, and unlike himself, willing to expend energy on inexperienced whelps. Someone had to take on the unpleasant task. Truth be told, Brynjolf had a certain knack for tapping unexpected resources as well, particularly the human kind. As if to reinforce the point, the man's mouth slipped into a smile, cutting tension.

"I was little more than a stray when you brought me in."

"You don't need to make an argument for this girl," Mercer stated. "If she's as talented as you say, it will speak for itself. Not that she's here," he wryly observed.

"I'm giving her the night to think about it. I'll need the pendant."

"Leverage?" he guessed. So help him, if Brynjolf tried to bribe someone into joining the guild in a misguided notion that it would work a miracle, he would take the pendant back and kick the girl out on her ass himself. They didn't need reluctant thieves taking up space and poisoning morale.

"It's just to secure the conversation," Brynjolf assured him. "Since she's resisting my best efforts and all."

"Fine," he agreed. "Do what you need to, but the pendant stays with me for now." His tone left no room for argument, and after a pause that was too long for his likng, Brynjolf nodded. "I want to know what we're dealing with. Someone must be hunting the girl if this isn't hers."

"Aye," Brynjolf agreed, rising. "Maybe she'll be kind enough to fill in the details."

Maybe. And a good thief knew to consider every lead before sorting rubbish from the gems. The men shared a parting nod before Brynjolf strode away, empty formalities and farewells of no use between them. Of everyone left in the guild, Brynjolf and Delvin had served the longest, and they'd learned long ago that pleasantries held little value to him. Then there'd been Vekel, a would-be-thief who'd wisely given up on that ambition, followed by others and the constant turning of seasons and passing names. Some didn't last long or severed ties. Some had broken the rules and paid for it. Everyone had their reasons for joining, and staring across the cistern, Mercer imagined it a cauldron where humanity poured its contradictions and castoffs, as if to bury them. The ones that truly embraced that were still here.

He rolled the pendant between his fingers, thinking. He would need to make several inquiries before he even considered believing whatever this supposed thief had to say, assuming Brynjolf captured her favor. He wasted little time in retrieving parchment and quill, and jotted brief notes, signing nothing and sealing the letters with unmarked wax. Vex could handle the delivery. Let her have a moment of self-perceived importance. She would be looking to redeem herself after botching the Goldenglow job.

_Goldenglow_, he darkly recalled. Before Brynjolf had interrupted him, he'd been looking into the matter, studying the payment trend in his ledger and when they'd been delivered. The estate had been slowly raising resistance to the guild's demands for several months now, but at the time he'd thought it a reflection of the general trend in Riften. People were getting too bold—too relaxed in their attitude toward the guild, and damn if it didn't need corrected. Corrected immediately.

He worked as afternoon faded into twilight and then darkness. The cistern was fuller now, and lanterns flickered like fireflies in a cavern. There was nothing left here to occupy him, not tonight, and it was cold as a hagraven's tit anyway. Brynjolf was apparently of the same mind. The man had changed into his leather and was heading for the exit, probably to see what his latest target was doing. Mercer stood and trailed after him, heading for the ladder that opened into Riften's graveyard. The entrance was hidden within a mausoleum, beneath a slab of sliding stone. It was but a quick climb and he was free of the cistern.

Brynjolf was already making his way between tombstones, his figure clear beneath the moonlit sky. It would be a full moon soon, offering more light than a proper thief ever needed. Mercer was disinclined to step free from the mausoleum as he considered his surroundings, struck almost immediately as he was by movement against the graveyard's wall. A dark shape was huddled there and sliding forward, creeping toward the unsuspecting Brynjolf.

_What do we have here? _

Mercer hoped that the little sneak hadn't become alerted to the guild's back entrance. If so, there would be the hassle of disposal, but more than that, he was annoyed that someone in the guild had been careless enough to be seen. He suspected that Brynjolf, in all his distracted hope over recent events, might be that person. Still, it wouldn't do to have the man killed by some interloper, especially a potential assassin sent to weaken the guild.

He crept forward, undetected by both of the people ahead of him. It was too easy. Neither thought themselves prey, and in their foolishness, he would teach them a lesson.

* * *

Prim's toes and fingers had gone numb from waiting outside. It might even be necessary to sleep here, hidden between the tombstone and wall where she sat, if her target didn't show. She'd already waited a good portion of the evening, and was beginning to lose hope. Brynjolf had disappeared inside that mausoleum, to pay respects to the dead perhaps, only he hadn't reemerged. She'd finally taken a peek inside to find the space empty, but a kicked pebble had found a crevice and fallen, bumping and echoing through some hidden chamber. Even if she'd known how to get inside, she didn't dare try, not knowing who or how many people might be waiting with drawn weapons.

What had she gotten herself into this time? And when would she be able to spring her ambush?

_I am going to strangle him_, she vowed.

Just as she considered quiting for night and finding a warmer location to sleep, a figure detached itself from stone. Someone was leaving the mausoleum, and the almost nonchalant gait made her body spark to life. It was him, and he was alone. She wouldn't let him get away with her pendant a third time.

She wasn't particularly experienced at sneaking up on people, so she counted her blessings that the man seemed distracted tonight. It was only a matter of winding between tombstones and readying herself to pounce. She didn't feel bad about kicking him on the back of the knee and watching him stumble, nor about jumping on top of him and holding his face in the dirt. He was the one who'd chosen to do this the hard way.

"Don't even think about it," she growled, grabbing the dagger from his belt. She tossed it aside and leaned closer to his ear. "Where is my pendant?"

"Prim?" The man had gone still, his voice muffled. She kept the tip of her own dagger pressed against his back, but allowed him to turn his head. "Well, well, lass. Color me impressed. I didn't think I'd see you again so soon."

He sounded collected, but she smelled anxiety. He was concerned, and well he should be. She dug the tip of her dagger into the leather of his armor to further the point.

"My pendant," she repeated. "Where is it?"

"Not on me." Damn it all to Oblivion! "But I'd be happy to discuss it if you let me off the ground. I'll keep my hands where you can see them. I was actually on my way to see you, lass. We never got the chance to finish our conversation from yesterday."

"There's nothing to finish," she said, frustrated by the turn of events.

"I took your pendant. You took my purse. I'd say we're even."

She fell silent, staring at his profile. His attention was fixed on her while she thought, wondering if making a deal with him was her only option. Maybe she could still work this to her advantage. Maybe...

Pain exploded in the back of her head, making her vision spin and blur. Then the darkness closed. Her body pitched forward, sprawled across Brynjolf as a groan escaped her lips.

"Looks like your persuasion skills needs some work, Brynjolf."

The cold voice carried a touch of derision, and she could make no sense of the words as she fell unconscious.

* * *

This was not her home, Jorrvaskr, or even The Bee and Barb, and she didn't recall reserving a room there for the night anyway. It certainly wasn't anywhere she wanted to be, not judging by the almost stifling smell that seemed to push her even further into the stack of blankets beneath her. What _was_ that? Sewage? A faint trace perhaps, and then earth and mead and something suspiciously like skeever. Divines please tell her that she hadn't been stuffed underground somewhere to rot.

Prim cracked her eyes open and found a stone ceiling above her. She was resting atop crates and blankets in what looked like an underground chamber of sorts. It was dim and her head was pounding, but she had no difficultly picking out the the sound of voices and someone sweeping a stone floor. Everything was stone here, and in the midst of it all, she distinguished Brynjolf sitting at a table with an older man who was bald and rough-tongued.

A moment of anxiety seized her when she realized where she must be and with whom. The question now was how she could escape. There were others as well, a Redguard woman and a man she took to be the bartender—a thin Nord with long hair and a mustache. She didn't move, fearful of drawing attention to herself.

"Mercer looked downright terrifying when you brought her in—like he was going to rip someone's head off. I haven't seen him that worked up in a while, Bryn."

The redhead muttered something that Prim couldn't hear.

"I don't have a problem with you bringing her here," the bartender stated. "Just make sure she doesn't cause problems or Dirge will kick her out. I would have paid to see her take a swing at Mercer's head."

"Did she really?" the bald one grinned.

"She woke up when we were trying to get her down the ladder. She fell on him and started swinging like he was going to kill her."

"She's lucky he didn't."

"It was a sight to see," Brynjolf noted, more reserved than the other two men in his humor. "I pulled her off before it got out of hand."

"I'm sorry I missed it. No wonder he was so pissed."

"I'm being serious about Dirge kicking her out if she tries anything in here."

Dirge? She began picking scents apart and tensed. There were even more people down here than she'd thought. She smelled a second woman and another man. Could she perhaps roll off the crates, away from them and into the water below? She was resting on a wooden platform that stood in a pool of some kind, and if she moved slowly enough, might lower herself down and wade away from these strangers.

"She might be staying awhile," Brynjolf stated.

"If you persuade her," a clipped, female voice replied. The woman was light-haired and lithe, leaning against the bar. "Right now, she's just an extra mouth to feed. She doesn't belong here."

"Yet," Brynjolf emphasized. Was the man defending her?

Prim squeezed her eyes shut as a wave of pain rippled through her. She felt sluggish. Perhaps they'd given her medicine or drugged her? This had bad shades of being held hostage by bandits, which she'd heard enough tales about to be a bit paranoid when traveling. Her sword and knife were gone, and her hands were tied together atop her stomach. She was blurry indeed to have not realized as much sooner, or perhaps her senses were merely overwhelmed by this place in her injured state.

_If I transform, they probably can't stop me. It would break my hands free._

_No_, she internally shouted. That was the last thing she should be considering.

"She's awake," someone stated.

Footsteps. She turned her head and watched the Redguard woman draw near.

"She looks dead, or maybe it's just because you Nords are so pale."

"If I'm dead, I'm being punished for something," Prim muttered.

"And she's mouthy," the Redguard continued, tone level. "You usually like the sweet, naïve ones, Brynjolf. When did that change?"

"To bed, Tonilia," the man gruffly replied. "Not to bring into the guild."

Guild. Theives Guild. Prim wondered if it might be a better deal to roll into the water and drown. Then she was looking up into green eyes, and perhaps it was due to the lighting, but they almost looked apologetic.

"How are you feeling, lass? You took quite a hit to the head."

"Mercer isn't known for being gentle," someone wryly commented.

"I'm not dead," Prim considered, her mouth fighting to form words. "Did you drug me?"

"Just a little mead and medicine to ease the pain," he assured her. "More mead than anything. You must be a bit worried, and I don't blame you, but you're in no danger."

"I'm in the Ratway?" she guessed.

"Quick one, aren't you?" His voice regained some of its humor, and he smiled down at her. She didn't reply, choosing to close her eyes instead. "I'd suggest continuing our conversation from earlier, but I'm worried you'll try to hit me. We can talk after you rest."

"I'm ready to talk now," she responded, opening her eyes. He looked surprised at that, then pleased, and she couldn't fathom the reason. "Can you untie me? Please?"

"Don't you dare," the bartender called from where he was sweeping. "I'll not have someone throwing punches around the Flagon."

"Did you hear that, lass?" Brynjolf asked. "I can't let you free unless you promise to keep your hands to yourself."

"Says a thief." He tapped her bindings with a playful smile. There was something about this man that seemed untarnished despite his profession, and for all she knew, she owed him her life. It was possible that one or more of these people thought she should be killed for knowing too much. "I promise," she ground out, lifting her hands toward him.

Her bindings fell free, and she slowly rose into a sitting position, feet dangling over the crates. She wanted to vomit, and sucked in air against the sudden urge. A hand landed on her shoulder, gentle and steadying.

"Take it easy," he cautioned. "Vekel won't take kindly to you making mess."

"And some of us are eating supper," the bald man interjected.

"Doesn't anyone here know how to stay out of a conversation?" Brynjolf chided, stepping between her and the others. "This isn't the most private place to have a conversation," he continued, more quietly. "Perhaps we should discuss our business elsewhere."

"I'm not going anywhere alone with you."

He didn't reply as she tried to stand and wobbled. Almost instantly, she returned to sitting on the crates, her defenses muddled as she let the thief ease her down onto her back.

"You'd best lie down a bit longer," he suggested. "We wouldn't want you toppling into the cistern."

"Your offer," she mumbled. "The one you've been trying to get me to discuss. What is it?"

"It's simple really. You're out of money and are—shall we say?-already familiar with my line of work. Your little stunt in the market was inspired. I didn't think you'd take it that far...or further," he ruefully added. "I've got to say, lass, it's been awhile since we've seen someone like you stroll through Riften. You caught me by surprise."

He sounded impressed, although she was going to need to deflate him a little. Her mouth opened to do so, but he kept talking.

"I'm not going to force you to do anything, lass. Of that, you have my word, but you're a natural thief, and if you pick the right friends, there's real money to be made in that. Not the quick gold that covers a meal," he emphasized. "But real money that lets you relax a little in life. You'd have resources and a place to stay."

"You want me to join your guild," she simplified.

"Yes. For our benefit and yours."

She sensed his anticipation, and stubbornly fixed her gaze on the ceiling. She had no desire to live as a thief, and had barely stolen anything in her life. What she had stolen had not been to line her own pockets or even to keep herself afloat. No, there'd been personal reasons, but to someone like him, it probably made little difference.

"I'm not a thief," she stated.

"Funny. I seem to recall someone setting me up and robbing me this afternoon."

"For reasons that need no explanation."

"That's the way every job is," he dismissed. "And what are you planning to do tomorrow? You've no money and nowhere to stay. Riften is just as cruel as the rest of Skyrim in winter. You'd starve or freeze without wandering hands. I'm guessing you know a thing or two about doing what's necessary to survive. What about this offer isn't appealing?"

He sounded curious, as if he thought the offer ironclad. Was he serious? She focused through the pain in her skull and met his gaze.

"The jobs you do for one," she said. "I'm not selling strangers false promises, bottled or otherwise. I say good riddance to your smashed potions."

Someone guffawed in the background, and Brynjolf spun, his tone harsher than she'd previously heard.

"Enough of your eavesdropping, Delvin!" He turned back to her. "That objection is easily fixed, lass. We have many jobs that don't involve that sort of thing. What would you say to robbing a tomb or taking spellbooks from some necromancer holed up in a cave? Or robbing someone who can spare the damage, like, for instance, a king? There are different kinds of thieving, and some people deserve what they have coming."

"I..." She didn't know what to say. She'd justified her few thefts in life for those very reasons, and she didn't regret them. And what would she do for the rest of winter? Whiterun was several days away, not far, but she'd certainly need funds to get there. She was no forester or huntswoman who could fend for herself in the wilderness without supplies, and what of his interest in working with her? He was most persistent, so perhaps he was willing to negotiate.

He looked down at her with a patient smile, like he had all night to wait for an answer.

"We're like a family down here," he casually added. "Everyone has a specialty or type of job they focus on."

Family. She considered the word, but she already had that with the Companions. She didn't need to adopt some group of thieves as friends and quickly dismissed the notion. Money, a place to stay while she sorted herself out, a chance to do some more research...those were certainly more appealing, and there was something already familiar and easy about interacting with Brynjolf.

_And getting my pendant back_, she darkly thought.

"What are the strings attached to this?"

"You work on jobs contracted with us, and in return, you get a cut. Don't cross us, and you're free to do what you choose."

"And if I choose to leave?"

"Plenty of people have left," he replied, looking away from her for a moment. "They weren't punished in any way. It's up to you, lass. What do you think?"

She took time formulating a response, less resistant now that she knew she could walk away, or so he said. And if not, she was back to running. The thought rankled her—almost made her reject the whole affair on principal alone. Instead, she breathed deeply and wondered what alternative she had for the winter. If she said no, would she be endangering herself now that he'd brought her here? The gods had a funny way of tying her life into knots.

"I'll join." Did he look relieved? "On several conditions."

"Oh?" he challenged. "Let's hear them."

"I'm not obligated to do any given job. I want a job thoroughly presented before I accept, and if I choose to reject it, that's how it is. Two," she continued. "My pendant. I want it back. Now. Three, I'll go along with this for a month. At the end of the month, I'll choose whether I want to stay or not."

"Is that all?" he laughed. "Lass, you have yourself a deal. Like I said, we operate on a come-and-go basis down here. Get your feet wet and see how you like it. I guarantee you'll want more." She wouldn't count on that, but held her tongue as she again attempted to stand. He helped her along, walking her toward the others. "You can welcome the newest member of the guild."

"What about Mercer?" the light-haired woman questioned. Her features were sharp, or maybe it was her expression that made them so. Prim detected a note of caution in her voice.

"What about him?" Brynjolf challenged. "He'll come around."

"Once she completes a job," the one named Vekel agreed, leaning against the bar. "Welcome to the guild..."

"Prim," she answered. "You can call me Prim."

"Pretty little thing," a gruff voice commented.

"Shut up, Delvin," Vex sniped.

"Prim, this is Vex. Delvin. Vekel. Tonilia. And the silent one over there is Dirge."

"Hello," Prim spoke, bobbing her head. Vex was eyeing her in a highly critical fashion that made her wary. "Maybe I could get some sleep?" she suggested, still unsteady.

Brynjolf steered her clear of the others, toward what looked like a cabinet. She wasn't entirely sure as the room suddenly began to spin.

"Just a few more steps, lass."

Her feet kept moving, but she wasn't paying attention to the direction they took. There was a tunnel and then another room, large and circular with a pool at its center. She heard arrows striking a soft surface, and jolted, alarm bells ringing in her head. Strong hands kept her moving though, and suddenly she was on a bed, a real one, although the mattress sagged and smelled of someone else. She didn't care as Brynjolf momentarily appeared above her.

"Get some sleep and we'll talk more later. You made the right choice, lass."

She drifted off into the darkness, wanting nothing more than to wake up somewhere in the sunlight. One month. She would see how it went for one month, and thereafter, all bets were off. The idea gave her comfort as she shifted between sleep and awareness. Sometimes people passed by, but she didn't recognize them, and then all was silent. Nothing moved about her, and somewhere, she was aware of someone gently snoring.

Her eyes next opened to near darkness. Few lanterns remained lit in the cistern, and the beds nearest her were occupied. She was on her side, watching moonlight snake across the pool's surface. A desk stood by itself across the way, a candle burnt almost to its holder scattering light across a stack of paper. A man sat there, alone and removed from the rest of the room, elbows resting on chair arms and fingers steepled together. His features were difficult to determine from this distance, but his hair was lightly colored, his leather armor fitted and much like Brynjolf's.

She sat up in her darkened area, and couldn't remember how she'd gotten there. At least the headache was gone, but feeling the back of her head revealed a bump. She winced. Someone hadn't held back with their strike, and running a tongue along her mouth, she was surprised to realize her lip was split. A quick inspection revealed several bruises on her arm, but nothing more. She couldn't remember fighting, but hadn't the others mentioned something about an attack?

She gingerly rose to her feet, unlikely to fall back asleep in such an unfamiliar setting, surrounded by people she didn't know. It would be best to take a quick walk around the room to ease her discomfort, making note of any entrances or exits. It would be a bonus if she could find her sword or dagger, but for now, she was content to pace the pool's edge, eventually reaching a rack of weapons. Her hand ran over the hilts, her blades not among them.

Her movements froze as an uncanny sensation teased her mind. It was the man at the desk. He was watching her, although his position had not changed. She felt rather than saw his eyes, and instinctively tensed. It was ridiculous really, to feel threatened by a mere look over such distance, and now that he'd seen her, she might as well introduce herself. He might think her an intruder otherwise.

Her pace remained steady as she crossed the walkway that arched over the pool, forcing herself to not close the distance as quickly as she might have to relieve his stare. She could see him more clearly now, and he did not look pleased. There was a sternness about him—an authority that made her wonder just who he was. His short hair had started to gray, scruff hugging his jaw and shadows rimming his eyes in the candlelight. She thought his eyes might be a deep gray, and traced several scars across his face, perhaps to avoid meeting his gaze.

She reached his desk and his eyes flickered across her body. Again, her skin prickled, but she offered him a soft greeting anyway.

"Good evening."

"What are you doing in the cistern?"

His tone was demanding, the voice behind it low and a bit gruff. Prim felt momentarily unbalanced before her gaze hardened in reply to his.

"I came with Brynjolf."

"I know," he said. "But last I checked, you were laid out in the Ragged Flagon, unconscious and drooling. What are doing in _here_?"

"Drooling?" she frowned. "Is everyone in the guild rude by nature, or does living in a stinking hole in the ground do it?"

"Why you little, impudent brat." He was scowling now, but didn't move. He didn't need to. Even standing, Prim suddenly felt like she'd strayed into very dangerous territory. The man was making her uneasy, and he hadn't so much as lifted a finger. "I told Brynjolf we should just toss you over the city walls," he said.

"Well, thank you," she warily released. "For not doing so." He shifted his body to more directly face her, and candlelight caught his eyes, revealing them to be slate-colored, just as she'd suspected. He was clearly Breton. "Brynjolf brought me in here for a bed," she spoke. "He said we could talk business later."

"Was that before or after he made you an offer?"

The question carried so much weight that she feared answering it incorrectly would mean terrible news for the red-haired thief. She almost glared at the man opposite her in defiance.

"After," she stated. "I walked over here to introduce myself now that I'm in the guild, but I can see I wasted my time. I'm Prim, in case you were wondering."

"I already know your name," he coolly replied. "Or what you call yourself anyway. I'm assuming you have a surname as well."

"I do, but you haven't even given me your first."

His eyebrows arched ever so slightly, and he stared a long moment before shaking his head with an almost dismissive air.

"Mercer Frey, although I don't suppose it means anything to you."

She'd heard his name before. It had bounced around in the other room, when the other thieves had been discussing...oh, Akatosh preserve her. She'd attacked this man. For a moment, she had a very clear image of dropping onto his chest and grabbing the straps crisscrossing over his armor. She'd aim a fist directly at his face, and he'd caught and gripped her hand with such force no wonder it ached. The bruises, were they from him grabbing and throwing her back? Or from Brynjolf pulling her off the man? Her memory fizzled and died at the moment both men seized upon her.

"Oh," she said.

"Remembering a little more of your night?" he guessed.

"I tried to beat you senseless against the floor. Yes, I'm starting to remember a bit of that. Did I...? I didn't do anything too violent, did I?" _Like biting anyone_, she dreaded. _Or growing fur perhaps._ No wonder the man was being so cold and snide with her. She wouldn't be too pleased with someone who'd tried to kill her either.

"Don't worry," he drawled. "A second hit to the head fixed it."

"A second...?" She frowned, feeling another headache coming. "I guess I can't blame you. So you're the one with knuckles of iron." This was awkward. Really awkward, and judging by all the comments she'd heard about this man, he was very high up in the chain of command here. That would explain the desk as well.

"I..."

He cut her off, his words quick and impatient.

"You can apologize in the morning, when I feel like hearing it."

He stood, dismissing her without a word. As soon as he left the light, she lost him. He didn't make a single sound in the darkness, and she frowned when the sound of sliding stone reached her. The hidden entrance in the graveyard. He was already through it? That quickly and silently? She didn't know anything about this Mercer Frey, but she obviously needed to watch herself.


	3. Chapter 3

"How are you feeling this morning?"

Prim sat in the Ragged Flagon with a plate of potatoes and eggs. Brynjolf sat on one side of her, Delvin on the other. Her stomach had awoken her early with its rumbling, and Vekel had offered one meal on the house since she was new. It seemed that she needed to start a job immediately or risk eating scraps. If Vekel hadn't drilled the point home, Tonilia had.

"I'm much better," she said. "But it will take awhile before I feel comfortable. I woke up a lot in the night." She thoughtfully stabbed a potato. "Delvin snores."

"Aye, so everyone is always telling me," the man shrugged.

She liked Delvin's relaxed manner and the slight rasp in his voice, but was unsure whether the man was sitting with her to be friendly, or because he was hoping to gain something from it. She'd seen a note to him on one of the tables, telling him to stop spying on Vex while she bathed.

"Are you up for some work today?" Brynjolf asked.

"You've given me a place to stay. I'm ready to earn my keep."

"A good attitude," Vekel noted. He was behind the bar, slicing onions while Dirge counted coins. "If you're willing to do your share, you'll fit in just fine."

"She's already fitting in," Brynjolf smiled. "I'm glad to hear you're eager, lass. There are some formalities that need to be taken care of first, but then we can see to your armor and a job."

"Formalities?"

"Don't worry, love," Delvin winked. "You're as good as in the guild. It's just a matter of having the boss give his say."

Prim's stomach twisted. Yesterday, she hadn't even wanted to join, and today she was worried about being kicked back onto Riften's streets by a scowling man with very gray eyes. He hadn't been present when she'd woken up, for which she was grateful. She didn't like the idea of him watching her braid her hair and then meet other thieves around the cistern.

She stabbed the next potato with a little more force.

"The boss," she said. "Is that Mercer Frey?"

"That's him," Brynjolf answered. "I didn't think it a good idea to introduce you to him last night, not when you were so unsteady. Mercer's not an...easy man to work with sometimes, but he's the best there is. He's been guildmaster since I was a footpad."

"And you punched him," Delvin grinned. "He might not have taken kindly to meeting you last night. Vex got to see it. Lucky thief."

"He expects me to apologize," Prim dryly noted.

Delvin and Brynjolf exchanged an ambiguous look, the latter studying her expression.

"You've already met Mercer?"

"Last night," she explained. "I couldn't sleep, and he was...being an ass." Both men cracked a smile at that one. "Is he always like that? Or is it because I hit him?"

"It's not you," Delvin assured her. "It's him. He's always got a tick on his ass."

"Not always," Brynjolf corrected him. "But you won't do yourself any favors trying to be his friend. He expects a lot. Keep that in mind, and whatever happens, never get into a fight with him. If he catches you in the training room with your sword, don't accept a challenge. He's not just a master thief."

"I crossed blades with him once," Delvin recalled. "One of my dumber decisions."

"One of many, I suspect," a female voice added.

Prim glanced over her shoulder to see Vex wandering closer. The woman was svelte and moved gracefully, passing close to Delvin's back. The man grinned in good humor and leaned against the table, shaking his head.

"What's for breakfast?" Vex asked.

"Potatoes, love," Delvin purred. The woman barely glanced at him. "Not ready to forgive a man a quick peek yet, are you? I bet Prim understands. A true man knows how to appreciate beauty. Tell Vex how it is."

"I'm pretty sure no woman sees peeking that way, Delvin."

Brynjolf wore a smile and leaned back in his chair, removing himself from the conversation, even as Delvin looked to him for support. It was strange, this place. For a bunch of criminals, there seemed to be a certain level of community between them, or friendliness at least. The banter around the Flagon felt natural, as though they'd all been working together a long time. Prim was well aware of existing on the outskirts for the time being, and thought it might be better that way in the end.

"Ready?" Brynjolf asked.

"Let's get it over with."

"I believe I owe you a pendant as well."

She brightened at that, and followed him back into the cistern. The guild armor he wore suited him more than his merchant clothing, and now that she'd seen him in it, she wondered why she hadn't recognized the danger he posed earlier. His steady demeanor spoke of experience, the knife on his hip clearly belonging there. He even seemed immune to the dark look Mercer cast in their direction, but then again, the two had apparently been working together a long time.

_Don't let him get to you either._

She stood tall as they stepped on the crosswalk. Having her sword back on her hip where it belonged helped. Brynjolf said that she didn't need it, but she wasn't ready to lower her guard around these people just yet, especially the guildmaster. The man stood at the crosswalk's center, bathed in morning light.

"Mercer," Brynjolf greeted with a nod. "I hear you've already met our latest recruit."

"Briefly," the man dismissed. He crossed his arms with a touch of impatience, as if this were a waste of his time. "You've filled her in on the details?"

"Of course. Prim, this is Mercer Frey."

"A pleasure," she nodded, forcing a smile onto her face. "Does this mean I'm in?"

"Brynjolf vouches for you, so you're in," the man affirmed. "But there are rules. Don't steal from the guild, and make sure you bring in your share of gold. This isn't a charity. And watch your blade," he added, eyeing her sword. "We're not the Dark Brotherhood. I don't need them thinking we're encroaching on their territory. Understand?"

"You're thieves and have a rule against stealing?" The irony wasn't lost on her, and this time her smile was genuine. Brynjolf tilted his head, hiding a smirk.

"I'm going to let that go for now," Mercer glowered.

"She knows what happens to those who steal from the guild," Brynjolf assured, quickly turning his gaze back to Prim. "Alright then, lass. How does it feel to be a full member?"

"Good. I'm ready to work."

"There's one more thing," Mercer added, lazily rolling a coin between his fingers. Prim didn't like his calculating expression.

"One more thing?" Brynjolf questioned, glancing between them.

"Something I'm owed."

Prim locked gazes with Mercer, her mind buzzing. He had a point. She'd clearly attacked him, but not without reason, and did he need to be so pompous about it? Her hesitation earned her a flat stare from Brynjolf, the man silently urging her to resolve the matter. He was opening his mouth to break the silence when she finally spoke up.

"I don't owe you an apology." Brynjolf clamped his mouth shut, eyes darting to Mercer, who'd gone completely still. "Not anymore than you owe me one for hitting me. _Twice, _I might add. You were carrying me to my death for all I knew. I acted accordingly." She looked him up and down. "You look a damn sight better than me for all the rough and tumble."

For a moment, Mercer's lips flattened into a straight line, and she couldn't ignore the spike of concern that shot through her. She had no idea what was going on behind those gray eyes, and wondered if he was about to explode. Instead, a small smirk touched the corner of his mouth, and he turned to Brynjolf.

"She doesn't know where her pendant is, does she?" He reached for the collar of his tunic. "In the future, you will address me as Master Frey," he continued, returning his attention to her. "And you can have this back after you've proven yourself more valuable than it."

Prim clenched her fists as the man pulled a golden chain from inside his armor. On the end dangled her pendant, and the sight of it in his possession made her growl. The low sound must have reached Brynjolf's ears, for he glanced at her in question.

"Mercer, is that really necessary?"

"And how much money will you bring in this week with your potions gone? I'm not coming out in the negative on this one. She can show what she's worth by handling Goldenglow."

A look of surprise flashed across Brynjolf's face.

"That's a hot job for a newcomer," he noted. "Vex almost got killed."

"Your little protégé has a lot to prove."

Prim detected a challenge in his voice, and watching her pendant dangle in his grasp, felt a rush of adrenaline, like the time Vilkas had taunted her about being too slow. So she'd accidentally gotten conked on the head a few times by his wooden training sword, and maybe she'd gotten injured on her first job. She'd proven herself worth a degree of respect since then, and now, looking at Mercer, she had the urge to tell him she was a member of the Companion's inner circle—that she'd fought with trolls and survived tombs of Draugr, and was damn well worth more than a stinking tunnel underneath Riften. Instead, she folded her arms and gave her best impervious expression.

"I guess I'd better get started."

"See that you do. Brynjolf will give you the details."

The man returned to his desk, and Prim had the strangest sense of having passed some test. Brynjolf's approving expression certainly suggested as much, and he even gave her a gentle clap on the shoulder.

"That was bold, lass."

She was pleased by his regard, and must have shown it, for he chuckled. If he was still worried about this Goldenglow business, he gave no indication.

"Now the hard part," she guessed. "This isn't going to be an easy job, is it?"

"No, that it won't, but the payoff is large. I know we have an understanding of sorts, but this..."

"I'm doing it." She would show Mercer just how talented a thief she could be.

"Well then, let's get down to business."

* * *

The Goldenglow estate was situated on an island in Lake Honrich and easily reached. Prim swam the short distance and crept ashore as twilight colored the sky, snaking along rocks and the wooden fence that protected the estate's beehives. It was damn cold for swimming, and she shivered in the night air, knowing that speed was the key for more than just avoiding the mercenaries. Already, she was flexing her fingers to keep them agile. There was no time for second guesses or mistakes as she lifted a hand to the first hive.

There were no bees at work this time of year, and recent snow had dampened the hives. They did not catch easily, but with a little patience, the flames dancing along her fingertips would spread. She directed her magicka into the hive entrances to ignite the dry interiors, the resulting flames only becoming apparent slowly. The mercenaries were none the wiser as she slipped back to the water and along the shore. By the time she neared the house, flames were shooting into the sky, drawing the estate's inhabitants away from the main building.

Prim wasn't sure what troubled her more as she entered the manor, the smell of smoke that warned her animal side to flee, or the guilt of intrusion. Aringoth had gotten himself into this mess by making an ill-conceived deal with criminals, but she couldn't deny a sense of remorse as she found him sitting in his room, cradling his head. She would remember his horrified expression for days—could think of little else as she made her way to the basement with his key.

_"I'm as good as dead anyway."_

But he had time to flee, and she'd told him as much. She wouldn't be his executioner, not today or ever. The mercenary who tried to kill her in the basement was another matter, and she quietly dispatched him before locating her prize. The key fit. The gold and documents were hers. And leaving but a pile of coins behind, she was gone just as quickly as she'd come. Never mind that without the key, she wouldn't have been able to pick the lock. No one needed to know about that as she slipped back into the water, documents held high, and reached shore.

_Divines, I'm freezing!_

Her teeth chattered as she sprinted toward Riften. A stash of dry clothing would have been advisable, but she had yet to earn enough money for a second pair. There was nothing to do put keep moving, and by the time she reached the graveyard, she was panting, unsure whether she was burning up or freezing. Water sloshed in her boots and dripped from her armor as she entered the cistern.

"Prim, you're back!"

Rune was at her side, his shout drawing attention. She shoved Goldenglow's gold and documents into his hands, and began stripping, ignoring the curious stares of those around her.

"A funny time to go swimming," Rune mused.

"Clothing," she chattered, dropping the last of her armor onto the floor. Her tunic and pants clung to her, drenched and painfully cold. "Anything," she insisted. "Anything dry."

"Right away. I've got a spare..."

"I've got it," Brynjolf interrupted.

A blanket feel across Prim's shoulders, and she smiled up at the redhead with a hint of triumph. Cold or not, Rune's full hands spoke for themselves.

"It's done," she stated.

"We saw the fire and smoke from here," he gently replied, tilting his head for a better look at her. She pushed wet hair from her face, struggling not to shiver. "Good work, lass. I knew you could do it, but you can tell us all about it after you're out of that clothing. Sapphire should have something your size."

He turned and called out to the woman, who didn't hesitate nearly as much as Prim had expected. There was even a measure of respect in the other woman's demeanor as she approached.

"Everyone in Riften saw the flames," she shared. "That will give them something to talk about for a few months." She held out a stack of clothing. "Make sure I get these back tomorrow."

Prim changed in a darkened corner while Brynjolf read through the stolen documents. Sapphire had even loaned her sandals, and thank every divine in existence that her feet were no longer on the stone floor. Warmth slowly began reaching her fingers and toes.

"Are you feeling better now?"

"Sort of. I'm never swimming in winter again." She wrapped the blanket about herself and shuffled closer. "Did you see that Goldenglow was sold?"

"Aye." He seemed troubled by the knowledge, and deposited the goods back into her arms. "I never thought Aringoth to be so foolish. When Maven finds out, he's as good as dead."

"I'm pretty sure he knows."

"Out of our hands now, and the extra gold with it," he sourly noted. "You'd best take these to Mercer. I've a feeling you'd like to make the delivery yourself."

"You bet or my mother's a troll."

Brynjolf pulled the sliding blanket back onto her shoulders, humor lighting his eyes.

"I think he knew you could do it the whole time, lass. Don't keep him waiting, and come to the Flagon when you're done. I think your success calls for a little celebration."

"Celebration!" Rune echoed, returning with a mug of hot ale. He insisted Prim take it, leaving her to navigate across the cistern with full hands and a slipping blanket. She fumbled the last few steps, coming to a standstill before Mercer's desk with less grace than intended. She didn't have time to gauge his mood as she dropped the goods onto his desk.

"Gold. Documents. Finished."

She regained her balance and took a long, deliberate sip of ale. Its warmth curled through her with delightful quickness, insulating her from the otherwise ambiguous expression on Mercer's face. The man lifted the bag of gold, weighing it with his hands, and then unrolled the deed of sale.

"You took care of everything as instructed?"

"Everything."

His jaw tightened as he read through the document, and for a moment, his face betrayed amazement. Fingers smoothed the paper as he reread its contents several times, a finger tapping against the symbol drawn on the bottom.

"That idiot," he finally growled.

He sounded dismayed, maybe even a little wary. Prim was taken aback by his stiff stance, as if he'd been slapped, and thought better of speaking. He had the look of one who'd been drawn into a far corner of his mind, forgetting that he was in the presence of others, or perhaps not caring. She could probably leave without being noticed—thought it better than interrupting him—but didn't move. She continued sipping on the ale, eyes fixed on the gold chain rising from beneath the collar of his armor.

_He could almost be Kodlak right now, pouring over some old tome. _

"I'll be going," she decided.

Mercer made a noise in the back of his throat, but otherwise didn't respond, and she slipped away to the Flagon and the promise of food and camaraderie. Her fellow thieves were already there and didn't disappoint, demanding she tell the entire story from start to finish. There was ale and hot food, laughter and grins. Delvin was far in his cup when he began rambling about turning the tide on some curse, and the way his eyes shined made Prim believe she'd done something truly magnificent. The gold from the estate had been a prize in itself, but this—_this_, she realized—was something on an entirely different level.

"The guild really needed this," she whispered to herself.

"Yes, we did, lass."

Brynjolf was sitting beside her, relaxed and leaning against the table. He smiled into his mug, his eyes a bit cloudy from the drink. He might have been Farkas or any of the other companions in that moment, and the smile she offered him came just as naturally. Maybe staying here for at least a month wouldn't be so bad.

"You said things weren't going well," she said.

"They still aren't, but you let me and Mercer worry about that. Keep doing jobs like this and you'll do more than your share. I had a good feeling about you, lass, right from the moment I stole your pendant."

"Which I still need to get back," she muttered.

Brynjolf's smile was a bit too lazy, making her chuckle. So Delvin wasn't the only one who'd had a bit too much. She leaned back and observed the room in contented silence. The tables were full and the occupants drifting into a quiet but pleased fatigue. Cynric was dealing cards while Tonilia leaned to whisper in Vekels' ear, and Sapphire was trying to convince Rune to shave his beard. It was mundane and wonderful, and Prim even forgot they were in a sewer.

Her wandering gaze froze when she spotted a figure against the wall, a bottle of mead in the man's hand.

"Look who decided to show up," she commented, nudging Brynjolf.

As if he'd heard her, Mercer glanced in their direction.

"He'll have a lot on his mind with this whole business," Brynjolf solemnly replied. "He's the one who will deal with Maven, which is no small feat." The redhead leaned closer, speaking in her ear. "And he's got the ears of a Falmer, so keep your voice down."

She huffed with a smile, and downed the rest of her mead.

"I think he and Maven must deserve each other."

Brynjolf chuckled, and she followed suit. Then, with a shake of his head, he leaned closer yet.

"He carries a lot of our stress, lass. It's his job to keep things together, and it hasn't been easy these last few years."

"Yeah, yeah. Make excuses for him."

She waved him off and returned her gaze to the guildmaster. He was staring at some distant point in the Flagon, tapping the bottom of his empty bottle against the wall. He soon departed, denying an offer to play cards or join Delvin for another round of drinks. The man simply left, silently and without fanfare.

And he still had her pendant.

"I think I'd better turn in for the night," she excused herself.

"Go ahead. You deserve it. Do you need anything?"

"No. I'll be fine."

She hurried after Mercer, who must have heard her approach long before he acknowledged her. He was nearly to his desk when her stride drew even with his, and he arched a questioning eyebrow at her. Part of him still seemed to be somewhere else.

"Do you have a moment, Master Frey?" she broached.

"Not unless it's important."

"I believe we have something to discuss," she persisted, more forcefully. He sat on the edge of his desk, facing her, arms crossed over his chest. "I'm worth more to you than that pendant. I've heard enough to know the guild isn't doing well. It seems like you've fallen on hard times."

"And you think you can help turn that around?" he challenged.

"Every bit helps, I suppose."

"Care to explain why you had to go upstairs for the key in Goldenglow?"

She cracked a wry smile, having hoped that no one would think about her story too closely with the ale and laughter flowing. She hadn't even thought Mercer was present for the tale.

"I don't know how to pick locks," she confessed.

"Some thief you'll make," he scoffed. An unspoken question rested in his gaze, although she couldn't hope to discern it. He pulled the pendant free, twisting it between his fingers. "How did you manage to steal from a king?"

"Honestly?"

Should she tell him the truth? He was probably one of the last people in Skyrim she should trust, but he was also probably one of the last to spread news about the town too. She stared at her pendant, and with a humorless smile, decided to throw caution to the wind for the night. She'd already drank her fair share with a group of criminals, committed arson, and robbed a man.

"I knocked him out, took it from his neck, and haven't looked back since. He was a horrible person—the worst kind of tyrant—and if he hadn't been so arrogant, he might have taken greater precautions to keep himself safe. You don't need to pick locks when you can climb walls." She caught her tongue before it went too far, and worked a hand through her damp hair. "Maybe I'll tell you the rest of the story one day, if you're interested."

Mercer's fingers stilled, a moment passing in silence before he tossed the pendant to her.

"Train with Vex and learn how to pick locks. You're little use to me otherwise." He moved around his desk, eyes lingering on the Goldenglow documents once more. "How good are you with that sword?"

"Good enough."

His eyes flicked up to her, expression flat.

"Delvin and Vex will have jobs for you. Brynjolf might require your assistance on special assignments as well, but I hope that I'm perfectly clear when I say that anything from me comes first. If I have a task, you drop whatever you're doing, understand? I don't care if you're already half-way out the door. And don't go blabbing about the jobs either," he gruffly added. "You have a remarkably loose tongue to have lived this long."

"That's..." Prim didn't know what to say. One moment this man looked at her with disdain, and the next he was talking about giving her more jobs? "I already have an agreement with Brynjolf," she stated. "I'm not obligated to do any particular job."

"If Brynjolf's willing to tolerate that, fine, but that's not how it works with me."

His tone had hardened, daring her to defy him. She stepped closer to his desk, hands on her hips, although she was more intrigued by the turn of events than affronted. There was something dangerous but tempting about this. Her beast blood hummed with excitement, even as she ordered it silent. The last time she'd listened to it, she'd ended up cornered by the Silver Hand. Whichever side won, outright refusal probably wasn't the wisest direction to take right now.

"I'm not promising to do any and everything you ask of me," she considered. "But...I think we can reach an understanding on the matter."

There was a wolfish but satisfied edge to Mercer's expression, and she again felt a ripple of unease. Then, just as quickly, he was reabsorbed in his work, and she'd been dismissed.

"Goodnight, Master Frey."

In retrospect, she might have just made a pact with a daedra. Too late to take it back now, and she wasn't sure she'd want to anyway. No more running, right? This was going to be one of the most trying and unpredictable months of her life, she was sure.


	4. Chapter 4

There was something to be said for a hot mug of cider and hospitality. The drink warmed Prim right to her toes, which she wiggled against the leather of her boots. The Snow-Shod family was offering her their best as she sat in their kitchen, listening to the woman of the house hum a soft tune. The notes drifted across the room with a melancholy that echoed deeply in the eyes of Vulwulf, but its source remained unknown to Prim. The Snow-Shod's were kind, yet there was a void here that left her uneasy.

"The Bleaksnow's, huh?" Vulwulf asked. The Nord scratched a beard as white as his namesake, and stared at the far wall. "It's been a long time since I heard that name."

"I suppose they left a long time ago," Prim mused.

"Yes, when I was a boy. My parents knew them well. We were close, you know, the two families. My father said we were the first bloodlines to settle in Riften. I don't know much personally—too young—but I do know stories. My parents were talkers."

"Did they die out?" Prim queried. She had hoped that maybe some family remained in Riften, however far removed. Vulwulf shook his head and leveled a questioning stare at her.

"They didn't die out, not the natural way at least. May I ask why you're so interested?"

"I was familiar with the family in Daggerfall. There were Bleaksnows there, and from what I understand, they came from Riften."

"Ah, Grense," he distantly smiled. "Is it true then? There's a story about her running off and marrying some royal Breton. I thought it was only a rumor, but I guess there are more rumors than anything surrounding that family. I heard that she ran off in the first place because a dark artifact was driving her parents mad."

Prim gripped her mug and and took a long gulp of cider.

"There might be some truth to that, but we'll probably never know."

"Did you know her? Grense? Ah, what am I saying? She would have passed before your time."

"No, I didn't know her, but I heard her story. They say whatever destroyed her parents followed her to Daggerfall and ruined her too. Her daughter was left to live at court and marry, having a daughter of her own one day. There were always rumors that one day whatever destroyed the grandmother would come back."

When she looked up, Vulwulf wore a sympathetic expression that deflected her gaze. The past was no longer painful to talk about, not since she'd poured out her heart to Kodlak and then destroyed a target dummy in rage, but it was still uncomfortable. Another long sip of cider, and she was ready to continue.

"Whatever it was, it's gone now. It won't harm anyone again, but the damage is done. There are no Bleaksnow's in Daggerfall anymore, just like here."

"That's a strange tale," Vulwulf considered. "My mother always believed the story of a curse and dark artifacts to be true, but I had my doubts. I suppose I still do...but the pain in that family was real, whatever caused it."

His expression grew distant, and the humming in the adjacent room stopped. The silence chafed at Prim, but felt oddly fitting as well. Only when she set her mug aside did Vulwulf seem to remember her presence.

"Forgive me," he apologized. "I am in mourning. Losing someone you love takes a long time to heal, although one day..." He shook his head. "I can't even think of that now."

His wife, Nura, entered the room, and laid a hand on his shoulder. She was steady and held herself gracefully, a calming air accompanying her.

"You are welcome here, Prim, if you need anything," she spoke. "Perhaps there are no longer Bleaksnow's here, but family lines have long memories. There is no reason you should feel alone in Riften, as unwelcoming as the city might seem."

"I'm not alone," Prim softly smiled. The melancholy here was beginning to seep into her, more than she cared to admit. She should leave soon, although perhaps she was offering much needed company to this couple. The wife certainly seemed eager to keep her a while longer, refilling her mug without a word. "I've made some friends," Prim continued. "They're helping me figure things out"

"Brynjolf can be a very good friend if you're on the right side of him," the woman smiled.

"Just keep a hand on your money," Vulwulf gruffly added, although not unkindly.

The couple seemed very well off. Had the guild never bothered them? Prim's mind drifted to the thieves dwelling beneath Riften's streets, and wondered just how many people had felt their touch. It was strange to be dwelling with them, yet not think of herself in the same terms. She was probably being a hypocrite, and winced at the thought.

"If you're looking for more information on the Bleaksnow's," Vulwulf commented. "You might...I'm a bit loathe to suggest this, mind you, but you might try the Ratway warrens. I hear that's where the last one went when the madness finally took over. There were some cousins too, but they drifted away, or maybe they ended up down there too. I don't know. The family was fading, and then one day they were all gone."

The Ratway warrens? Vekel had warned her not to go down there. It was beneath the Ragged Flagon and cistern, a forgotten tunnel of burrows and stone that had long since fallen from use. According to Delvin, the place didn't even have a clear purpose, except the rumored history of it being used as a prison and torture pit by previous rulers.

"I wouldn't go there," Nura cautioned. "It's too dangerous, and the man wouldn't be alive anyway. He was already old when he disappeared."

"I don't plan to look for him or any of the others," Prim stated. "I didn't even know him."

Bones could tell her nothing more than tragedy. These people could tell her little more than what she'd already heard.

"Will you stay for dinner?" Vulwulf asked. "We would be happy to have you."

"It does us well to have a young, spry woman about," Nura added.

"Thank you, but I'd best be going," Prim excused. "My friends will be expecting me."

They understood well enough, and didn't try to dissuade her as she departed. Vex would be expecting her soon, in the guild's training room, where their lock picking lessons would continue. The thought made Prim grimace as she strode through Riften, wearing a tunic and pants for the day. It was her everyday attire, complete with a new cloak that she'd bought with the money from Goldenglow. She was accustomed to strolling through the city, and supposed the locals had grown accustomed to her as well, some barely noticing her as she passed.

The city of grime was getting under skin.

_It's only been two weeks_, she thought. Two weeks since she'd joined the guild, nearly three since she'd entered Riften. Training had kept her busy enough that she hadn't devoted time to tracing her family roots. She wasn't even sure that approaching the Snow-shod's had been wise, but with a glance back at their quiet abode, she didn't regret the decision. The building looked just as slumped as Vulwulf's shoulders, and she vowed to visit them again soon.

She neared the stairs leading down to the canal, and paused as a familiar scent caught her nose. It was but a wisp, yet lingered tenaciously as a blond woman walked by. Haelga was a shapely Nord woman, and daring in her mannerisms and sultry looks. Prim had seen the woman about town on multiple occasions, and frequently smelled men on her. This scent however, left her staring.

She would recognize Mercer Frey's scent anywhere.

The smell faded as she entered the Ratway and then the Ragged Flagon, hoping that no one would think much of it. They were discouraged from trafficking in and out when Riften was most active, but the guild was hardly a secret. If anyone marked her presence, they said nothing, and the cistern was fairly empty given a recent string of job offers anyway. Even Mercer was absent, although she was coming to realize the irregularity of his presence. He'd been a constant in her first few days, but now he might appear for but a few hours.

"You're late," Vex scolded.

"How can you tell? You can't see the sun from down here." At the look on Vex's face, she waved a dismissive hand. "I had some business to take care of. And besides, I have this." She held up a bundle of lockpicks. "So I won't break yours."

"Thank Nocturnal."

Prim walked across the training room and flopped down in front of the chest Vex indicated. She wanted to bang her head against the wood. She'd failed to open this one yesterday, and after breaking so many lockpicks that Vex refused to give her more, had given up.

"Stupid, vile thing," she muttered, staring at the lock.

"It's one of the simpler ones to open," Vex informed her.

"I've only been doing this about a week. I'll get it eventually...or burn it."

And burning it already sounded appealing as she inserted a lockpick. Vex knelt beside her, offering instructions, and upon growing impatient, seized the pick and demonstrated herself.

"You should be embarrassed," the pale thief frowned. "You're supposed to be a thief."

"Yeah, that's what I'm told."

Vex pressed the lockpick back into her hand, and began pacing.

"Mercer told me to teach you," the woman griped. "Or I wouldn't even be doing this. I can't believe you made it into Goldenglow."

"There's more than one way to finish a job," Prim absently spoke. She was tinkering with the lock, stopping as she felt strain on the lockpick. Maybe the other direction would work better.

"I just don't get it," Vex continued. "...You're not even listening."

Prim grinned and glanced up at the other woman. Part of her suspected Vex actually liked these training sessions and a chance to have someone acknowledge her skills. The woman was certainly talented, although a bit aloof.

"I'm listening," she assured. "Mercer practically ordered me to work on this, so it looks like we're in the same boat. He must think you're a good teacher."

Vex stopped pacing and adopted a thoughtful expression.

"Maybe. Or he just wants to shove it off on anyone but himself."

"Do tell," Prim agreed. "Does he ever get his own hands dirty? Or he just hands out work and waits for the gold to roll in?" Vex wore a smile—thin and subtle, like all of her smiles. In the ensuing silence, a lockpick broke.

"Blessed Nocturnal. Come find me when you get it open. I've shown you the technique how many times? You just need to practice. I'm not wasting more of my time..."

The woman's words trailed off, following her down the tunnel that led from the training room. Just as well. Prim preferred practicing without an audience, especially an impatient one, and turned to her task with renewed focus. She inserted one tool, then the second, and experimentally turned them this way and that. She hadn't told Vex yet, but she appreciated the lessons, even if they were delivered under direct threat from Mercer.

Snap!

"Damn it," she muttered, flicking the broken pick at the wall.

A lockpick entered her periphery, and she grabbed it, slightly annoyed that Vex had returned so quickly. It wasn't until she began tinkering anew that her body stiffened. Someone was standing right behind her, looking over her shoulder, and it wasn't Vex.

"Day eight," she stated. "Chest number eight."

"Not bad," the man behind her lowly mused.

_I can't work with him there_, she frowned, but he didn't show any inclination to move. Did he need to stand so close to her back? And she didn't like sitting beneath him and feeling his presence looming over her either.

"Do you need to do that?" she asked.

"Do what?"

"Hang over me like a thundercloud."

She twiddled the lockpick and spun on her butt to face him. Regret immediately slapped her in the face as she inhaled the scent of bodies pressed tightly together. It was a distinct, musky smell, clinging to his normal scent and playing havoc with her senses. Such overtones were common enough in life and usually did not bother her, but this she could not get out of her nose.

"What do you need, Master Frey?"

"That's an easy chest to open," he stated, ignoring her question. "Where is Vex?"

"Letting me practice. She's been in here with me every day," she added, sensing his displeasure. "I'm sure a lock like this is easy for someone who's been opening them as long as you have."

She leaned back against the chest, forcing herself to look relaxed. She wouldn't let him know how uncomfortable his scent was making her right now. No way. He stared down at her, one thumb running along the hilt of his dwarven sword. The weapon was almost always strapped to his hip. She'd rarely seen him without it.

"I expect you to be on more difficult locks next week," he said.

"I'll do my best," she offered, crossing her arms. His demanding tone didn't rile her nearly as much as it once had. Two weeks of watching him interact with other guild members had somewhat tempered her reactions, not that he spent much time conversing with anyone except Brynjolf. The man came and went like a shadow, rarely even stepping foot in the Flagon.

"Brynjolf gave me a job earlier today," she commented. "So I might be gone for a bit."

"Oh?" The way he said it sounded thoroughly uninterested.

"He needs me to retrieve a key that the guards in Ivarstead confiscated."

"You can do it later," Mercer dismissed. "I need you for something. Follow me."

She trailed after him, keeping her breathing shallow. She wouldn't breathe deeply of his current scent, which was starting to grate on her nerves. There was no reason to be so aware of it, as if she hadn't smelled similar airs around some of the other thieves already.

Mercer reached his desk and tossed her a wax seal.

"Do you know whose seal that is?"

Prim examined the simple design with a certain level of disgust. It was the same design that marked every mead cask and bottle around the city.

"The Black-Briar's," she answered. "I prefer Solitude's mountain brews myself."

"Let me guess," Mercer disparaged. "On principal."

"Black-Briar mead is nothing special." She tossed the seal onto his desk. "Maven runs a fast, cheap production and expects people to lie through their teeth about it. I'm not playing her game."

"Which is exactly why you won't be speaking to her directly, even though she requested it. I don't need you getting on her bad side. And," he archly continued. "Don't think I missed those empty mountain brew bottles you left around the market. You're lucky Maven doesn't know you're responsible. I don't want to see one more bottle."

"How dare..."

"Not _one_," he ground out.

Prim held her tongue, but internally fumed. Maven was an arrogant, spiteful woman who walked around like there was a crown on her head. Being around her made Prim's fingers itch to do something rash, but she knew better given her affiliation with the guild. Brynjolf had explained the situation to her in some detail.

"Delvin got a kick out of it," she dryly commented. The memory of the man's laughter made her smile. She could always count on Delvin to share her humor.

"She is our largest patron, and if you do anything to make her reconsider, you will be answering to more than just me," Mercer spoke. "You'll be answering to the entire guild, and don't for one moment think they'll clamor to protect you."

_From Maven or you? _

"Fortunately," he continued. "Your work with Goldenglow has Maven quite pleased. She wants you to run an errand for her, an important one. Her main competitor is Honningbrew Meadery in Whiterun, and she wants to know how they got into the business so quickly. Someone's financing them."

"I know the place," Prim stated. She'd been there to pick up mead for the Companions in her early days, when Vilkas seemed intent on giving her the most menial of tasks. "The owner, Sabjorn, is a real piece of work. So Maven wants me to do some investigating, huh?"

"That's part of it. She also wants this to go into the mead." He removed a dark bottle from his desk. "There's a taste-testing event in several days. The captain of the guard and the jarl will be attending. If they were to get sick, the meadery would be shut down."

Her skin crawled as she eyed the bottle. She knew the jarl and captain, and had nothing but respect for them. Sabjorn she knew well enough to realize he was a far greater bastard than his smile let on, but the thought of a quick trip to Whiterun was quickly losing its appeal.

She lifted the bottle and removed the stopper for a quick sniff. Her nose wrinkled, stomach churning in disgust. It was both sweet and sickly, hinting at a flower or perhaps honey that masked a more potent poison.

"What is this?" she demanded, tone harsher than intended.

"Nothing you should be smelling."

She replaced the stopper and set the bottle on his desk none too gently.

"If that's going to seriously hurt someone, forget it. I'm not risking lives to help some bitch put her competitor out of business."

Her affronted voice carried around the cistern, curious eyes turning in her direction. Mercer remained calm, although the steel in his gaze cut through her. He took a step closer, voice lowered to a dangerous octave.

"Would you care to explain your refusal to Maven?"

"Maybe I would." She turned, threatening to make good on her statement, but he seized her wrist, jerking her backward. She nearly stumbled into his chest, and found she could look nowhere but his eyes. _And the smell_, she inwardly bemoaned. Heavy and rich, for a moment, she could think of nothing else. The man needed to clean himself up after visiting someone.

"You'll do no such thing," he growled. "Or I will personally make you regret it."

"Mercer...Master Frey," she tactfully corrected. "I know this is important, but I'm not risking anyone's life for Maven. She's not worth it."

He released her wrist and stepped back, anger simmering in his gaze but fading. Maybe it was her calm, almost apologetic tone that had done it, but she didn't know. Even Brynjolf would be flabbergasted by her refusal to do this job without knowing what the bottle held. _And disappointed_, she realized. He'd vouched for her, and if he heard about this...

_When did the opinion of thieves start mattering to you?_

"I'll have the apothecary take a quick look at it," she said. "Would that be acceptable?"

Mercer said nothing for a long moment, and then pressed the bottle into her hands. He closed her fingers over it, giving her no choice. She was certain her wrist would show bruises in the morning.

"One way or another, you're doing this job," he rumbled. "Be discreet."

She nodded, and he returned to the other side of his desk. This was more comfortable—having the desk between them as it often was when he called someone over. She exhaled, still uneasy about the bottle in her hands. Of all the jobs Mercer could possibly give her, why did it need to come from Maven?

"I'll be back," she sighed.

He said nothing as she walked away, a very curious Sapphire quickly joining her. The woman was beautiful, all lush curves and feminine eyes, but with a coarse tongue and gaze that warned people off. It was amazing what a little mead and girls' conversation could do to melt her stony exterior though.

"Good job making my heart stop," she quietly commented.

"You heard?"

"No. As soon as Mercer grabbed you, all of us figured we'd keep our distance."

"Blasted man," Prim muttered.

The door to the Flagon swung open, and she paused in Brynjolf's shadow. He looked set on something, and tumbled back to the cistern when he saw her.

"Everything alright, lass?"

"Yeah, but about the job you gave me. Maven wants me in Whiterun. I'll retrieve the key after I come back. Is that alright?"

"Maven?" the redhead considered. "Don't worry about the key. I'll have someone else handle it. You'd best get yourself to Whiterun. I'm sure Mercer will fill me in with the details."

He offered her a smile, and she readily returned it.

"Thanks. And sorry about that. I'll be back soon."

Now to visit the apothecary.


	5. Chapter 5

Brynjolf's protégé had no business being in the guild. She had all the natural talent in the world, but wavered at the idea of causing a little food poisoning for Maven. It was laughable—no, nauseating—yet Mercer Frey had a strong feeling she'd pull the job off perfectly. Maybe if Brynjolf had asked her to do the job, she'd have objected less. Or if he himself had never mentioned Maven, but to Oblivion with that. The girl needed to know exactly where she stood and what was expected of her. He had no interest in portraying guild activities as anything other than what they were. They were thieves, damn it.

_"Mercer. It's a beauty. A symbol like that is of the old Ashhart bloodline. It fell out of use when the last king of the line died and was replaced by his cousin. That was little more than a decade ago. There's no record of the cause of death, but I'm sure there are rumors to be gathered. You'll find it interesting that he once bragged no thief could ever steal from his palace and survive. As for his insignia, I don't know the details or why you're asking. I can try to learn more if needed."_

There was more to Prim's story about stealing from a king than she'd shared. Much more. He thought through the letter once more, and returned to the task at hand.

She _would_ do the job perfectly. He wouldn't have given it to her otherwise, although she probably wouldn't execute it in the same manner Vex, Delvin, or any of the others would. He wondered what Brynjolf saw in her, and doubted whether the man fully appreciated how much potential his found stray likely had, not that she'd ever each it. Her mouth or some moralistic, impulsive impetus would bleed her dry one day. Mercer had a feeling she would cause him a great deal of trouble before that happened.

He paced along the arcaded walkway beneath the Temple of Mara. Maul was waiting for him around the corner, the large Nord offering a nod in greeting.

"You asked to see me?" Mercer questioned.

"Yeah. That woman Brynjolf brought into the guild? I've had my eye on her."

"Like you do on everyone."

"Right, well, I thought you'd like to know she's rubbing elbows with the wrong people. Some of it seems suspicious."

"Oh really?" he queried, interest piqued.

Maul leaned against the wall, and held out a fragment of paper. The edges were burnt, most of the message gone, but Mercer could discern a few broken lines: _keep your blade sharp. Details to be sent._

"Sometimes letters arrive for her," the Nord explained. "Never directly. You'll never guess you keeps her mail. Mjoll." Mercer arched his eyebrows at that, and Maul ruefully smiled. "Yeah. Mjoll the Lioness. She meets up with Prim at the Bee and Barb to pass them over. There have only been two that I know of. The servant boy pulled that one from the fire for me. You know how Mjoll hates us."

"Any idea where the letters are coming from?" Mercer asked.

"None. She burned both right after reading them."

"Pity. Anything else?"

"Nothing that you'd be interested in, but she's been asking about the Bleaksnow family. She has some interest in them, but no one knows why or they're not saying. She certainly didn't want my help with it."

Bleaksnow. Mercer vaguely remembered the family having once lived in Riften, their estate having been in the jarl's possession when the guild first started here. They'd passed before his arrival, but he'd nabbed a few jewels from their vault. _Very expensive jewels_, he mused. One remained in his possession, its value bitter and poisoned.

"You suspect someone knows more?" he guessed.

"She paid a visit to Vulwulf and Nura. Spent some time there apparently. That's all I've got. No one knows where she came from or why. Her name isn't known."

"I wouldn't expect it to be," he mused, tucking the paper away.

"You want me to keep track of her?" Maul asked. "Maven seems pleased with her."

"Maven hasn't talked to her," he intoned. "And Mjoll," he rolled the name derisively, "is a kitten, not a lion." Her continued existence despite speaking against Maven showed just how insignificant she was. Prim, however, might be a different matter. He could view the letter fragment with nothing but cynicism and a fleeting notion that maybe, just maybe, the woman was craftier than he gave her credit for. She was either manipulating Mjoll or the guild, maybe both, by portraying herself as eager and honest.

"If you notice anything worth sharing, let me know," he directed.

"As you say," Maul accepted.

The next few days were a waiting game—waiting for Honningbrew to be ruined, waiting for the thief to return and his contacts to dig up possible leads on Goldenglow—and in the meantime, he was left sorting through rumors. The day he heard that Sabjorn had been jailed, he'd thought the woman would return, but she didn't. It was two more days before she entered the cistern, wearing a smile and greeting everyone. She stopped to chat with each member along the way, and practically glowed when discussing the job with Brynjolf. He watched it all from behind his desk, rolling a coin between his fingers.

_Keep your blade sharp._

Just whom was this woman cavorting with? He had a feeling they might have more teeth than Mjoll and that pathetic puppy who trailed behind her.

"There was a lunatic living under the meadery," Prim was telling Brynjolf. "He was living with skeevers. _Diseased_ skeevers! He was planning to train an army of them or something. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous in your life?"

What in the lowest bowels of Oblivion was she doing taking her time? She had finished a high-profile job and was supposed to be reporting. She glanced in his direction, and paused when they locked gazes. She kept talking, but continued to focus on him, quickly excusing herself to join him.

"It's done," she stated, straight to business. "Mallus is in charge of the meadery now."

"The news reached us days ago," he stated. "Maven was generous in her payment."

He set her cut on the table, a large bag of coins that Prim barely seemed to notice.

"Brynjolf mentioned her showering us with gold," the woman noted.

There was something else though. Mercer could tell by the way a frown tugged at her lips. She hardly looked intimidating like that, an almost troubled glaze to her eyes—eyes framed by thick waves of auburn hair and a gentle face—but she hadn't gotten blood on her armor from being gentle. It was dry and fading, but the rust color on her thighs and side did not go unnoticed.

"I'm afraid there's more," she slowly spoke. "I found this. It looks like whoever bought Goldenglow funded Honningbrew as well."

Mercer seized the papers she held and rifled through them, quickly assessing the content. There, on the last page, was the same fucking symbol as on the Goldenglow contract, and he hadn't a damn clue whose it was. All he knew was that it was Dunmeri in origin, and that alone gave him cause for concern.

"Master Frey?" He glanced up at her. "I spoke to some people in Whiterun. A Breton woman visited Sabjorn several times while the meadery was being built. She hasn't been seen since though, and no one had a name. The stableman thinks she might have arrived from Solitude."

He all but glared at the documents before him.

"I wish there was more information," she commented. "But Mallus had no idea either. Do you need anything else?"

"No," he gruffly replied, hardly in the mood for conversation. He could ponder her dealings with Mjoll and some outside associates later. Of course, unknown associates were turning out to be a major thorn in his side lately.

"I'll be around if you change your mind," she shrugged.

She almost forgot her gold, and quickly returned to claim it.

"For all that is unholy in the world..."

* * *

Delvin was a terrible cheater. Two rounds of cards, and Prim had caught him trying to slip one by her twice. She grinned mischievously over her own cards, wondering how many of his tricks she hadn't caught. There was no gold at risk here, or she might have been less amused.

"Read them and weep," she said, laying down her hand.

"Shit," Delvin grumbled, tossing his cards onto the table. "What do you have?"

Brynjolf studied his hand with a grin slowly itching up his face.

"Sorry, lass, but luck is against you this time."

Prim groaned when he lowered his cards, and took another swig of her mead. Vekel only carried Black-Briar, of course, so that's what she was stuck drinking.

"Next time," she vowed.

"So says a true gambler," Delvin nodded. "But you're terrible at it, Prim. You might want to pick another vice."

"Like skooma?" she joked.

"If I ever catch you doing skooma, you'll regret it," Brynjolf stated. "Mangy addicts can never be trusted. We had one in the guild once. Idiot needed gold so badly he tried stealing from me."

"He stole from everyone," Delvin remarked.

The guild certainly seemed to have attracted a motley crew over the years, with the frayed edges constantly being clipped off. She finished her mead while the two men discussed recent contracts, noting how Delvin's eyes followed Vex when the woman passed their table. She had an inkling that there was more to that pair, or could be at least. Delvin was quite crude at times, but right now, he wasn't necessarily leering at Vex. He just couldn't seem to keep his eyes off her.

"It's been three weeks, Prim," Brynjolf suddenly said. "Almost a month."

"Has it been that long already?"

"Time passes quickly in good company," he smiled.

"Is that what you think you two are?" she teased. Then, more thoughtfully, "I hadn't noticed with all the jobs and the trip to Whiterun. This Goldenglow business seems serious."

"Maybe it's hasn't been a curse dogging us all this time," Delvin mused.

"Whoever it is will regret it," Brynjolf asserted. "One way or another. And we've got you to thank for chopping off one of their hands," he directed toward her. "It would be a shame to see you go at the end of the month."

"You fit in right nicely," Delvin added. "Don't go breaking my heart, love."

"You'd miss me, would you?" she smiled.

"We'd all miss you," Brynjolf spoke.

She stared into his green eyes, and noted a soft edge to his smile. This was a genuine Brynjolf smile, not the kind he wore for the people in the market when hawking his wares. She liked him best this way, and even felt a great fondness for Delvin as he reshuffled the cards. These people were suddenly her friends, and she wasn't entirely sure when they'd moved into that category. The same could not be said for everyone in the guild, but she rolled a thoughtful finger around the lip of her mead bottle.

"I would miss you guys too," she shared. "...Some more than others."

"I guess you'll just have to stay then," Brynjolf teased.

"Maybe. How about you get Mercer to ask me to stay?"

Both men grinned at the absurdity of the notion, and Prim's chuckle ended in a hiccup. Shaking her head, she grabbed and took a sip from Brynjolf's bottle.

"Or Vex to dance on the bar," she added. "And Tonilia to marry Vekel. Those are my demands. I won't be persuaded to stay her less!" She ended with a flourish, Brynjolf promptly retrieving his mead as she devolved into another fit of laughter.

"High demands," Delvin mused. "We're thieves, not miracle-workers. Although, with a drop or two of the right stuff in her mead, Vex might be persuaded..."

"I can hear you, Delvin," the woman called out in warning.

"No dancing, Vex?" Prim gasped. "Well, maybe I'll stay anyway. Maybe..."

She made no commitment, although the look Brynjolf was giving her asked for one. Her smile seemed reply enough, and she was alright with that. Whatever happened come the end of the month, she wouldn't just walk away and leave Riften. No, she'd be back. Maybe she'd bounce between here and Whiterun, or maybe she'd make this hole in the ground her longterm residence. She didn't know, and suddenly thought of the Companions and Mjoll. The woman had signaled her earlier today in the market.

"I'm going out for some fresh air," she said. "I could use some space to think. I'll see you guys later tonight or in the morning."

"Alright, lass. Shadows hide you."

It was a quick jaunt over to the Bee and Barb, and Mjoll was easily spotted. The woman was sitting near the fireplace, keeping warm while light danced across her honey hair and blue face paint. There was a true Nord if Prim had ever seen one, buckled in heavy armor and looking fit for a fight at any moment. She sidled up the woman, and gripped her hand in greeting. The woman's palm dwarfed her own.

"Sorry if I kept you waiting," she apologized.

"I'm usually here in the evening anyway," Mjoll smiled. "No worries. I've got your letter."

"My friend mentioned that he would be sending it once the details were worked out."

"Something important then?"

"It could be. Quite a few people have gone missing lately."

Mjoll adopted a severe expression as Prim read the short missive. Guards had claimed they could handle the matter, but they never came back. This sounded bad, and the letter was dated yesterday. Someone had run their legs off to get the message here so quickly.

_"Locals are terrified. If you get this, see what you can do. Send for a shield-sibling if you need to."_

"Damn," she hissed, crumbling the note and tossing it into the fire.

"Do you need help with anything?" Mjoll quickly asked.

The beast inside suddenly howled, eager to be back outside in the night, under the moon and rushing into the forest. Prim forced the urge down and stared into the flames. It had been months since she'd surrendered to her beast blood, and even on the way back to Whiterun, had almost succumbed. No, taking Mjoll with her was a bad idea.

"You're serving others better by staying here in Riften," Prim said. "This is something I'd rather handle alone." But when? Tonight? Early morning would be more convenient, but darkness was on her side right now. She was, after all, a dyed-in-the-wool thief now. "I'm not sure what I'll do," she sighed. "I'd better sleep on it."

"Aye, that can help," Mjoll agreed. "You can come find me though, if you change your mind."

"I know. Thanks, Mjoll."

If the Lioness knew she was a thief, would that change? Perhaps it was a bit unfair to let the woman rant to her about the Thieves Guild, all the while being a member, but Mjoll was good company. She had an appreciation for combat and fighting techniques that few in the guild shared. Daggers were the weapon of choice for those beneath the streets, and sometimes, she just wanted to sit and chat about other aspects of life.

She stood, and the other woman looked surprised.

"You don't want to stay for a drink?"

"Oh, I had some already tonight. I prefer to walk Riften fully sober, as I'm sure you do."

She thanked the woman again, and took her leave, pausing in the doorway as she caught sight of movement in the street's shadows. No, there was no one there, or not anymore. She could detect nothing further as she walked to the market well and sat on its rim. Vilkas had provided detailed directions, and she could visualize the turn in the road he'd referenced. She'd seen it on the way to Riften from Ivarstead. It wouldn't take long to reach.

_To Oblivion with it,_ she thought.

She hopped down from her perch and made for the city gates. The countryside beyond glistened with snow, the thick clouds overhead promising more, and the forest whispering in the wind. Traffic had trampled snow on the road thin, and Prim kept to it as she traveled west. There was a freeing element to being in the wilderness like this, catching glimpses of stars between clouds while Lake Honrich shone like black pearl. This was how Skyrim was meant to be seen and loved.

Reaching a curve in the road, she turned south toward the mountains. They stretched toward the sky, impenetrable towers, and somewhere, nestled in the near distance, she would find a cave. The crisp air would help guide her, scents carrying so easily in its grasp. She counted on it as she wove through the trees, watchful of wolves and bears. They were not what she smelled as a breeze swept westward though, and she immediately paused.

Eyes wide, she turned toward the wind and inhaled. For a moment, she even felt like running, her instincts telling her that this could not bode well. Even when the breeze dulled and the smell vanished, she did not proceed, one hand resting firmly on her sword.

She continued in discomfort, reaching an outcropping of rock and skidding down its length into a glen. She was close now—smelled a trace of smoke that might signal a campfire. She was also downwind of the outcropping, and again caught a familiar scent. This time, she could not ignore it. Her blood pounded with its knowledge, and swallowing, she debated what to do.

"Mercer?" she whispered.

…

"I know you're there, Mercer."

For a long moment, no one responded, but a dark shape rose from the outcropping, startling her. She hadn't noticed anyone there, and she'd been looking right at it. The man straightened, but did not come any closer.

"What in the name of Akatosh are you doing out here?" she asked.

Divines, without the wind, he might have been a few feet from her and she wouldn't have known. The thought chilled her, racing through her body as he finally descended the remaining distance to where she stood. He was draped in a gray cloak, the cowl up over his head.

"I could ask you the same question," he replied, voice a low rumble.

"Personal business," she deflected.

He strode closer, and she could see nothing of his face. Her hand did not move from her sword.

"It's guild business when you might have conflicting interests," he stated. "Keeping your sword sharp, footpad?" The statement would have sounded comforting from Vilkas, but on Mercer's lips, it carried threatening overtones. He threw back his cowl so she could she his sharp expression. "Someone is trying to destroy the guild, and you just happen to drop out of the sky. Next time you meet with Mjoll, you might reconsider how it looks. So I'll ask again. What are you doing out here?"

She didn't know whether to be more aggravated or intimidated. Had he been watching her so closely since she'd joined the guild? She loosened the grip on her sword, and focused on his cloak's clasp. It seemed a safer spot to study than his eyes.

"Do the others know?" she asked.

"About your little visits with the kitten? Maybe. Does she have any idea you're a thief?"

"Of course not."

He crossed his arms, and she hesitated, debating whether or not to continue with her work, or return to Riften and let him think whatever he wanted about this little sojourn.

"I'd rather not stand outside in the snow all night," he leveled.

"So come with me."

This was either brilliant or stupid. She couldn't decide which.

"And why would I do that?" Did she detect a note of interest? He was closer now, boots sinking into the snow with little sound.

"If you really want to know what I'm up to, what better way than to come with me? Will you really believe me otherwise?"

The corner of his mouth ticked upward in a smirk, although it wasn't a friendly one. She thought he might say something mocking, but instead, he stepped back and motioned for her to continue.

"This better not be a waste of my time."

"You'll have to decide after we're done. Be my shield-brother for the night."

She didn't wait to see his reaction. She continued through the forest, his presence beside her, melding into the shadows of trees and rocks. It did not take long for her to locate the cave, stopping shy of its entrance to survey the single sentry. He sat against the rock wall, head dropping forward against his chest. Prim couldn't distinguish anything further except the smell of smoke, and more importantly, blood.

_"They probably killed the entire family."_

She crept forward and dispatched the man with a single slice of her dagger, lowering his corpse to the ground. There were others inside, but Vilkas hadn't been able to provide numbers. She inhaled the smoke drifting from inside the cave, and heard Mercer at her ear.

"You intend to kill them all?"

"Only the bandits. I'm hoping they left some of their victims alive."

He made a low sound in his throat and passed her, drifting into the cave. She was right behind him, watching with interest as he navigated the tunnel. He paused on a ledge overlooking a larger cavern, a fire blazing at its center. The bedrolls around it were empty, but two men were awake and playing dice. A pile of boots and clothing sat discarded in one corner, including several sets of guard armor. An open pit suggested a makeshift grave that had yet to be filled. Prim did not see any survivors.

"Two," she spoke, voice a brush of air. "And one..." She smelled something unnatural, something that triggered her alarms. It was biting and metallic, and pushed her so close to Mercer that they touched. "Four, but I don't see the other two."

He studied her and then returned his gaze to the cavern. She had no idea who should move first. This was her mission, and for all she knew, he didn't intent to fight. Would he leave her to rot if the fight didn't go her way? Perhaps, but she hoped not.

She didn't wait for him as she slid closer, down a pile of earth and behind stalagmites. She drew close to the bandits, closer than the fools probably thought possible. With a flick of her wrist, her dagger lodged itself in one dice-player's throat, and before the other had his weapon drawn, she cut him down with her sword. It was messy, but effective.

"What's this? A mortal come to save the day?"

Prim adopted a fighting stance as a figure rose out of the nearby pit, reeking of death. Red eyes turned on her, fangs gleaming in the man's mouth. A sodding vampire, and his sallow cheeks spoke of hunger. Electricity danced along his pale hands, destruction magic at its finest sizzling, but he didn't strike. A look of revulsion crept into his features.

"Unsuitable blood," he proclaimed. "Filthy animal. I'll just kill you and be done with it."

Prim internally growled as she dove to her right, dodging a bolt of lightning. And there were two, damn it! Two blasted vampires, the second one female and drawn forth from a side tunnel by the racket. Prim forgot Mercer's presence as she skidded stalagmite to stalagmite, working her way closer to the mage while avoiding his magic.

Where was the second one now?

Perhaps it was too risky for the blood-sucking beast to close in with magic flying about. Prim took a risk and flew from her hiding place, throwing her dagger at the mage and hearing the responding scream. The flow of magic ceased, the mage cursing her existence.

"Disgusting, vile, tainted blood!"

She charged from her cover and swung her sword, slicing into him as he threw what little magicka remained at her chest. The crackle of lightning burned through her nerves, but not enough to stop her from halting his retreat. Another blow and his head as on the ground, his spell leaving her hands twitching and fighting to hold her blade. The second vampire would be upon her any moment, yet the attack never came.

She stumbled back, catching her breath and wide-eyed as swords collided before her. Mercer was locked in combat with the other vampire, their blades slashing and parrying, moving in time with one another. The guildmaster looked utterly at ease, scowling but graceful, weaving with such speed that the vampire had little hope of keeping up. The technique was flawless.

_Holy, sodding divines_, Prim marveled.

With a screech, the vampire crumbled to the ground, Mercer's sword lodged in her skull. Prim was still staring as he placed a boot to the body and ripped the blade free, cleaning it on an unbloodied corner of the corpse's clothing.

"Is this how you normally spend your evenings?" he dryly asked, turning to her. She didn't move. "Don't tell me the shock spell hasn't worn off yet."

She snapped back to herself, noting flecks of blood on her armor, but it wasn't hers.

"Only when I don't feel like sleeping," she tried to joke, but it came off stiffly, and Mercer scoffed at her. "You fight much better than I would expect a thief to." She was still a bit dazzled, and busy flexing her jumpy fingers. Damn mages.

Mercer was kneeling over the bodies, checking them for valuables while she walked to a nearby shelf. The rickety bookcase was crammed against the wall and littered with worn books and baubles. She lifted a child's shoe and gingerly brushed it clean.

"Monsters," she breathed.

Replacing it, she rifled through the belongings, finding several jeweled rings and spell scrolls. The books were mostly useless, but Mercer appeared beside her and flipped one open. After a few lines, he wordlessly tucked it into a leather bag he'd collected from the clothing pile. Book by book, he sorted through them.

"Tell me why you're out in the woods hunting vampires," he ordered.

"I didn't know they were vampires," she clarified. "And damn insulting ones too." Hopefully, Mercer was clueless when it came to vampiric tastes and why they wouldn't feed from certain people. "As to why, I was contracted."

"You're a killer for hire?" he considered, sounding unconvinced. No way did he really believe that, and she smiled wearily as she tossed her collected jewelry into his bag. Looting wasn't usually an after-effect of Companion jobs, but her accomplice tonight was a thief after all.

"I was contacted by friends who mentioned that travelers were disappearing," she simplified. "I'll receive a portion of the reward, just like a cut from the guild. You don't need to worry about me taking jobs that go against your interests. Or," she added, "you can believe that I simply like running around caves at night. Your choice."

She noticed a small chest tucked behind a stalagmite, and moved for a closer look. Its hinges were rusty, the lock broken. Its contents though, made her eyes widen. There, nestled in a bed of cloth, sat a slender blade inlaid with rubies. The hilt curled delicately, and a thin script wrapped around the handle.

"Mercer," she called. He ceased studying the books as she walked closer with the dagger, pointing to the script. "That's middle Norse script. I've only seen it a few times."

He took the blade and examined it, eyes picking over each and every detail. She wondered what he saw in the weapon: beauty, money, craftsmanship. She stood close and touched a finger to one of the rubies.

"The red is symbolic of blood. The words here. Sacrifice. Honor. I can't read much of it, but I've seen some of them before."

"Law-Giver has a blade of this style," he remarked. "It was handed down through her family."

"It's at least three hundred years old if it was created when middle Norse was used."

"Wrong," he corrected. "It's common for jarls to commission work with ancient elements. It could be much newer than that."

"When was the last time you saw copper intertwined with iron like that?" she challenged.

She nearly forgot whom she was working with until she realized Mercer was studying her instead of the weapon he held. His gaze was intent, but not uncomfortable, and she did not shy away from him.

"I didn't realize you knew so much about artifacts," she commented.

"A good thief knows the value of what he takes."

He kept the dagger, but dropped the leather sack in front of her. She frowned but didn't complain as she hoisted it over one shoulder and followed him from the cave. It had begun to snow outside, white flakes filling the air and melting on her nose. She allowed herself a gentle smile as she watched them dance through the air, breathing deep of the night. Contentment ran deep into her bones, and the beast yawned.

"So," she whispered. "Was it worth your time?"

"I'm still deciding."

And damn if she didn't detect a hint of teasing in his tone.

* * *

Brynjolf was in the training room when Prim walked in, heading directly for him. Her head reached his chin, her steps eager as though she had wonderful news. She looked up at him, and broadened her grin for good measure.

"Today," she announced, "is my thirtieth day in the guild."

"Oh?" he feigned ignorance. "Did you need help packing?

"Only if you think I should. I'd rather like to stay though."

He grinned back at her, and wouldn't admit feeling relieved. He'd half-feared she would be gone tomorrow, back on whatever mysterious journey had blown her into town in the first place. The guild hadn't see this much luck in almost a decade, and he couldn't deny being extremely fond of the woman. He leaned against the wall, and crossed his arms.

"I'll allow it," he shrugged.

"I thought so. We'll need to talk later," she added, more seriously. "There are a few things I'd like you to know now that I'll be staying long-term. I know you were surprised about that haul I brought it a few days ago. Sometimes I do jobs like that. I hope..."

"You can tell me anything, lass."

He suspected that Mercer knew more about the whole affair than he did, although he couldn't be certain. The guildmaster certainly hadn't questioned where the loot had come from, but that didn't mean he hadn't pried it from Prim after cornering her alone.

"Well, I've got to go," she smiled. "Sapphire and I are heading out for a girls' night. Maybe we can talk when I get back? Delvin said something about a blindfold trick."

"I'll be here when you get back."

"Alright, and Brynjolf? Thank you for everything."

He dismissively waved a hand, and she hurried away to join Sapphire. Those two were becoming quite the friends, and a wonder it did for Sapphire, who'd always been a bit of an awkward fit. He'd known from the very start that Prim belonged in the cistern.

Wait.

"Blindfold trick?" he groaned. "Delvin..."

He'd better put a stop to that before the thief got himself punched in the face.

* * *

**Author's Note:** That does it for this section of the story. I'm keeping the story in short chunks so that I can continue or stop whenever. I don't know how long it will end up being, if it will reach a final end point, remain open, etc. It really depends on when this unexpected drive to write about Mercer and Prim stops. Until then, I hope you enjoy the unfolding relationship between them.


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